


Loving You

by SelfAngst



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Allura is Lance's older sister, Characters will be added as needed!, Keith is adopted by the Gunderson-Holts!, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-11-12 17:47:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11166924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SelfAngst/pseuds/SelfAngst
Summary: Lance and Keith, Keith and Lance. They don't justseemperfect for each other, theyareperfect for each other. However, one afternoon Lance finds himself face to face with Shiro after 9 years. Shiro, who left him in pieces and heartbroken. Shiro, whom he loved so fiercely. Shiro, the one he could never forget. Seeing him again rekindles feelings Lance thought he left in the past, and he begins to question whether or not he was really meant to be with Keith.





	1. Chapter 1

It happened exactly 213 days after I married Keith, almost to the minute of our one o' clock ceremony. I know this not so much because I was an overeager, attractive, newlywed husband, but because I have a some problems with OCD that makes me keep track of things. Usually, I count the insignificant things like, the steps to my apartment to the subway (around 458 to 472 if I'm walking with Keith); how many times Keith has ever said "patience yields focus" after I've done something irritating (now in triple digits); the number of people I've been with in my thirty-one years (fourteen). Or, on that rainy afternoon in February, the number of days I had been married before I saw him in the middle of a crosswalk of Thirteenth and Harlem.

From the view of a cabdriver watching a mob of people and jaywalkers rush to beat the light, it was a simple and common urban snapshot: two strangers, with as little in common but their ideas of the weather, passing in an intersection, making quick eye contact, maybe mumbling hello before moving on their way.

But inside was different. Very different. I was absolutely a mess, heaving breaths as I made it to the opposite curb and into a near empty diner near Union Square. It's like when people say they've seen a ghost, one of those expressions I've heard for so long had never fully made sense until that moment. I closed my umbrella and unzipped my coat, trying to catch my breath. As I watched a waitress wipe a table with expertise, I wondered why I was so shocked by such an encounter when there was nothing special about it at all. It wasn't a universe defining moment like The Big Bang or like unfinished business was made out during a movie, but it was quiet, stubborn, and imposing. I hated it.

After what seemed like forever, the waitress noticed I was waiting to be seated, indicated by a small sign, and said, "Oh, I didn't see you come in. I meant to take down that sign after the large lunch rush. Go ahead and seat yourself, I'll be there in a second!"

She seemed so chipper that I almost wanted to invite her to sit and eat with me so I could just... talk my emotions out a bit. Instead, I seated myself in a red vinyl booth near the back of the diner and told myself to never speak of what had just happened. To share my feelings about this would be disloyal to my husband. To tell my older and "very wise" sister, Allura, might unleash a barrage of lectures on marriage and yadadadada. To write about this in a letter to myself or a journal would just prove its worth, which, it had... none whatsoever. And to tell Keith would just be the stupidest thing I could ever do. I was bothered by the fact I wanted to omit this moment, a mark on a pure, devoted, love, but I felt like it was the best choice.

"What can I get you?" the waitress, whose nametag read Flora, asked me. She had wavy red hair and deep hazel eyes, and I thought she reminded me of Princess Ariel.

I only wanted something to drink, but as a former waiter, it was always disheartening when people just ordered a drink, even in lulls between meals, so I asked for a diet coke and a blueberry bagel with cream cheese.

"No problem," she said, giving me a pleasant smile.

I smiled back and thanked her. Then, as she turned her back and made her way to the kitchen, I exhaled and closed my eyes, focusing on just how much I loved Keith. I loved everything about him, including the stuff that would've driven others away. I found it cute when he had trouble remembering what brand of food we'd buy (he routinely bought the wrong brand of tea when he prefers Twining over Lipton) or even the lyrics to his favorite songs ("This donkey's gone to Devon"). And I only shook my head when he'd leave his laundry literally everywhere in our apartment- I've reminded him 12 times this week. I loved Keith's confidence and compassion. I loved his broody resting bitch face that matched his emo looking self that hasn't changed in years. I felt lucky to be with a man who, after six long years with me, still drew messy hearts in the condensation of our bathroom mirror to match the ones I left him. Keith loved me, and I'm no where near ashamed to say that this topped my reasons of why we were together, of why I loved him too.

"Did you want your bagel toasted?" Flora shouted from behind the counter.

"Sure," I said, because I didn't really have a preference anyways.

I let my mind drift to the night of Keith's proposal, and how he pretended to tie his boots so that he could bend on one knee. I remember sipping chardonnay, my ring glinting in the firelight, as I thought, This is it. This is the moment almost everyone dreams of. This is the moment I have been dreaming of.

Flora brought me my diet coke, and I wrapped my hands around the cold, thin glass. I moved it towards me to drink from the plain straw, took a short sip, and thought of our year-long engagement- a year of parties and events and fast-paced wedding plans. Talk of tuxedos, of waltzes, and of how "we are not doing The Chicken Dance as our first dance, Lance." All leading up to that magical day. I thought of our teary-eyed vows. Our first dance to "All Of The Stars." The funny, witty toasts to us- speeches filled with too many clichés that were 100% true in our case: perfect for each other... true love... meant to be.

I remembered our flight to Hawaii the next day, how Keith and I had held hands in our first-class seats, laughing at all the small things that had gotten messed up on our day: What part of "don't touch the cake" did your cousins not understand? I can't believe you started sobbing, babe. Had you ever seen Allura so wasted? I thought of our honeymoon walks, the romantic dinners, and one particular morning that Keith and I spent on the beach. With the soft sand and dramatic scenery around us, it was one of the most beautiful places on Earth I had ever seen. At one point, as I was gazing towards the ocean, Keith rested his Eric Penz book on our beach towel, took my face in his hands, and kissed me. I kissed him back, committing that moment to memory. The sound of the waves splashing, the warm sun on my face, the scent of pineapples mixed with Keith's suntan lotion. When we separated, I told Keith I had never been happier. It was the truth.

But the best part came after the wedding, after the honeymoon, after our gifts were unpacked in our little apartment- and we sorted through which ones were junk and which ones were practical. It came as we settled into our husband-and-husband routine. Casual, easy, and real. It came every morning, as we sipped our respective drinks (mine being tea, his usually coffee) and talked as we got ready for work. It came when his name popped on my phone every couple of hours. It came at night when we shuffled through take-out menus because we "forgot" who's turn it was to cook. It came with every glance, every kiss, every time we undressed each other passionately. I trained my mind on these details. All the details that made up our 213 first days together.

Yet by the time Flora brought my bagel, I was back in that crosswalk, my heart threatening to beat out of my chest. Suddenly, I was aware that in spite of how happy I was to be spending my life with Keith, I wouldn't forget that moment, that makes my throat tighten as I saw his face again. Even though I greatly wanted to forget it. Desperately, because I wanted to.

I hesitantly glanced at my reflection in the tiled wall beside my booth. Despite the rain, I felt triumphant that I was having a good hair day. I also had a very rosy glow to me, but I told myself it was the February cold that had made me flushed. Nothing else.

And that's when my phone rang and I heard his voice. A voice I hadn't heard in nine years and sixteen days.

"Was that really you?" he asked me. His voice was deeper than I remembered, but it felt as if I had traveled back in time. Like I was finishing a conversation only a few minutes old.

"Yes," I said.

"So," he began casually. "You still have the same cell phone number."

Then, after a bit of silence, one I refused to fill, he added, "I guess some things never change."

"Yes," I said again, a bit of bite to my words.

Because as much as I didn't want to admit it, he was right about that.


	2. Chapter 2

My favorite movie of all time has to be _A Walk to Remember_. I love it for plenty of reasons- Mandy Moore and Shane West looked so good, the differences between their personalities and how they still ended up together, the emotions that filled my heart every time I watched it. But my favorite part is the undying love, although (spoilers) Jamie is already dead, and that Landon still, without a doubt, loved Jamie.

The very first time I saw the movie, I had to have been around fourteen and had never been kissed (much to my dismay). I watched Allura fall for a lot of boys that seemingly fell for her, only to get her heart broken, more often than I had my braces tightened, but I was still drawn to relationships and love.

Still, I remember sitting in a overly cold, cheap, theater, wondering where my future partner was at that moment in time- what they looked and sounded like. Were they on a first date, holding someone's hand while munching on Starburst and a large drink between them? Or was he much older, already in college and experienced in the ways of romance and the world? Was he the jocky type? Would I meet him on a random flight to Cuba? In my future work place? Or maybe even in the small convenience store downtown and religiously avoid unless it's necessary? I imagined us telling our story, over and over, our fingers laced together, with love just like Jamie and Landon.

What I had yet to learn, as the strapping teenager I was, is that things don't always work out that way. What I figured out as I grew up was that almost always, those stories married couples tell, are fabricated to be the most polished and romantic version of it. And unless you marry your high school sweetheart, there is usually a not-so-glorious back story. There are people and places and events that lead you to your final relationship, people and places and events you'd prefer to forget or at least gloss over. In the end, sure, you can slap a label on it like destiny or fate or whatever. Or you can believe it's just the random way life unfolds.

But no matter what you call it, every couple has two stories- the edited one to be shared and the unabridged version, best left alone. Keith and I were no different.

Both stories, though, started the same way. They both started with a letter that arrived in the mail one shitty humid afternoon the summer after I graduated high school- and just a few short weeks before I'd leave my hometown of Harrisburg for Syracuse University, the beautiful university in New York I had discovered in a college catalog and then selected after they offered me a generous scholarship for my academics. The letter contained important information about the studies, dorm life, and orientation. But, it also included my roommate assignment, typed onto a line of its own: Matthew Alexander Gunderson-Holt. I studied his name, along with his address and phone number in Austin, Texas, feeling rather intimidated. Texan people are supposed to be rugged cowboys or something, and having to compete with some sturdy vaquero that looked like he belonged in a western film wasn't ideal. I was certain that he had a "little-lady" and I imagined him dumping her by the end of the semester for some hot sorority tail or attractive graduate assistant. 

I remember running inside with that letter to tell Allura the news. Allura was a rising senior at Penn State and knew all about roommates. I found her in her room, brushing her long, silver dyed hair while listening to Halsey's "Ghost" on her laptop.

I read Matthew's full name aloud, and then shared my predictions about him in a very terrible Texan accent. My best frame of reference was Fandango, if that makes it clear. Mostly, I was being dramatic (what else is new), but I also felt a crashing wave of anxiety that I had picked the wrong school. I should have stuck to Penn State like Allura and the rest of my friends. I was going to be a fish out of water, just a misfit.

I watched Allura step away from her vanity, her mirror propped at angle to emphasize her slender self, and say, "Your accents _suck,_ Lance. You sound like you have a disease, not that you're from Texas... And wow, give the guy a chance or something first. What if he assumed that you were some steel-town boy with minimal fashion sense?" She laughed and pointedly said, "Oh yeah, he'd actually be right about that!"

"Very funny," I said, but couldn't help smiling. I was jealous that Allura was so likeable, even when she was making fun of me. 

Allura kept laughing as she started another song and belted out, "Finders keepers, losers weepers! Dadadadadababababababauh!" Then she stopped and said, "But, seriously, this guy could be like, a super genius or something for all you know. And either way, you might _really_ like him.

"People that have multiple first names in their full name are not to be trusted." I quipped.

"You never know," Allura said in her sage big-sister voice. "You just _never_ know."

Allura's suspicions seemed to be confirmed when, a few days later, I received a letter from "Matt" written in messy, but still readable handwriting on notebook paper that had equations and incomprehensible scribbles in the margins. His signature was in kindergarten cursive, like he had tried really hard at the last moment to make the paper presentable. The tone was enthusiastic (multiple exclamation points) yet still authoritative. He said he couldn't wait to meet me. He had tried to call me several times, but hadn't been able to reach me (my cell phone automatically rejected callers I didn't know, a fact I never admitted). He said he'd bring a small refrigerator and a high-definition TV, since he liked playing video games a lot. He was hoping we could come to an agreement on whether or not he could put his multitude of space themed posters in the room. He had found a whole vintage stack at a garage sale recently. Specifically, in the garage sale trash bin, and offered to give me some if I was interested. But if I wasn't a space person, he loved all sorts of movies (terrible ones I may add) and had a plethora of movie posters as well. He was also adamant that he was open to any thoughts or ideas I had as well, wanting to incorporate both of our interests. He told me he hoped I would enjoy the rest of my summer and then signed the letter, "See you soon, bud! Matt," a closing that, felt very authentic and real. I had only signed letters with "Love" or "Sincerely" but made a mental note to spice it up in the future. I'd be the first of many things I shouldn't have tried to copy from Matt.

I worked up the nerve to call Matt the next afternoon, clutching a pen and notepad in hand to make sure I didn't miss anything such as a suggestion we have video game night once a week.

The phone rang twice and a said hello. To be polite, I asked if I was speaking to Matt.

"Oh, he's in the middle of our state championship robotics tournament. Surprisingly, he's doing well. But I think it's because of the modifications our sister made last night while he was out cold," he replied with pride. There was a snicker in the distance, as if said sister was there and listening in.

 _Robotics tournament?_ I thought. _Fuck._ I had belonged to the robotics club at my high school for a day before becoming aware I was way out of my league. Everyone there was going to be some genius engineer someday and while I was smart, and knew it, I wasn't on that level at all. To hear that Matt was not only in robotics, but at a _state championship robotics tournament_ confirmed Allura's suspicions and heightened my anxiety. I imagined Matt as someone who would study constantly when he wasn't geeking out over something else, while looking as hot as any real cowboy would, or whatever Texans looked like on their farms and stuff.

"How may I help you?" he asked. His Southern accent was subtle, only revealing itself in the way he pronounced his _I._

I shyly introduced myself as Matt's roommate-to-be, stumbling a bit over my words.

"Oh, hey. This is Keith. Matt's brother."

And there is was.

 _Keith._ My future husband's name.

Keith went on to say that he went to Syracuse for awhile, and would show Matt and I the ropes, share insight about professors and fraternities, get us in the best kind of trouble, and "all sorts of stuff."

I thanked him, feeling myself ease up a bit.

"No problem," Keith said. And then, "So Matt's going to be happy to hear from you. I know he wanted to discuss his posters and videogames and all of his mess. I hope y'all have similar interests."

I replied with an earnest, "Oh yeah, I love geeky stuff."

It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the truth either. I wasn't into it as much as Matt was, but somehow that phrase found its way into Keith's toast to me at our rehearsal dinner, much to the delight of Matt and our closest friends, all of whom know that although I had my geeky side, I was far from Matt's realm of tech geek.

"Well, alright then!" Keith said with some humor to his voice. "A match made in geek heaven."

I smiled and thought, no matter what else happened with Matt, he had a very nice brother.

As it turned out, I was right about both Keith and Matt. He was nice, and Matt was just about as scatterbrained and geeky as I thought he would be. He was no cowboy though, both of us being slim and kind of lanky. He had wild hair that rivaled my worst bedhead, fair skin, and intelligent eyes that absorbed everything around him. I had thick, short, brown hair with blue eyes, soft bronze skin that looked warm to the touch, and I stood a good four inches taller than Matt. We were definitely not the same, but I guess we had more in common than what we looked like. It was just that Matt looked like who he was on the inside as he was on the outside. I knew I was attractive, but I wish I could have been more confident with myself like Matt.

Our backgrounds too, couldn't be more different. Matt lived in a huge, beautiful home on several acres of property on the outskirts of Austin- an estate by any measure. I grew up in a small home with mismatched furniture in the blue-collar part of Harrisburg. Matt's father was a prominent scientist who also served on many scientific boards of different companies. My dad was a salesman- selling unpleasant goods like those VCR and DVD sets that lazy teachers made you watch in elementary school. Matt's mom was a former professor from Houston State, with multiple degrees in Biology and Chemistry. Mine had been a junior-high teacher before she died of lung cancer, even though she never smoked, the day before I turned thirteen. 

Matt had both a brother and a sister, both of whom loved every part about Matt. His family seemed so loving and full of knowledge, taking in every opportunity to share that knowledge while reaping the rewards of it. I imagined them taking vacations to Europe and to the West Coast while Allura and I spent our vacations with our grandparents on the Jersey Shore. We didn't own passports, had never been out of the country, and I had only been on an airplane once.

Matt undoubtedly had the gift of high intellect, brimming with confidence that comes with wealthy, well-traveled brilliance. I was outgoing, sure, a bit compulsive, and had a strong desire to belong, even though I was comfortable on the sidelines of things.

Yet despite our differences, we became best friends. And then, years later, in what would make a perfect rom-com movie, I fell in love with his brother. The one I totally _knew_ would be as cute as he was nice.

But a lot of things had to happen before I married Keith and after that letter I got from Matt arrived. _A lot of things._ And one of them was Shiro. The one I would love before I loved Keith. The one I would grow to hate, but still love, long after we broke up. The one I would finally, _finally_ get over, Then see again, years later, in a New York City crosswalk.


	3. Chapter 3

"Where are you now?" Shiro asks.

I inhale sharply and consider my answer. For a second I think he means the question in a philosophical way- _Where are you in life?_ \- and I nearly tell him about Keith. My friends and family. My career as a photographer. What a good, contented place I'm in. Answers that, until recently, I scripted in the shower and on the subway, hoping and waiting for this opportunity. The chance to tell him that I had survived and gone on to much greater happiness.

But as my brain works faster than my mouth, I realize what Shiro is actually asking me. He means _literally_ where am I? In what little corner of New York am I digesting and pondering what just happened?

The question shakes me the same way you feel shook when someone asks you how much you money you make. A probing question you'd strongly prefer not to answer. But, in refusing to answer it outright, you're afraid you'll look defensive or rude. Later, you'll think of the perfect, polite, and evasive response. _Never enough money, am I right?_ Or in this instance: _Out and about._

But, there in the moment, I always just blurt out the truth. I spit out the name of the diner where I am having a diet coke on a cold, rainy day.

_Oh well,_ I think, once it's off my tongue. After all, it is probably better to be straightforward. Being evasive could translate as me being coy or flirtatious like, _guess where I am... come find me..._

Still, Shiro answers quickly, knowingly, "Right," he says, as if this diner had been a special hangout of ours. Or, worse, as if I were just that predictable. Then he asks me if I'm alone.

_None of your business,_ I want to say, but instead my mouth opens and I serve up a plain, simple, inviting yes. Like a single red checker sliding up to a black checkered king, just asking to be jumped.

Sure enough, Shiro says, "Good. I'm coming over. Don't move." Then he hangs up before I can respond. I turned my screen off and paniced. My first instinct is to get up and walk out. But I command myself not to be a coward. I can handle seeing him again. I am a somewhat mature, stable, _happily married_ man. So what is the big deal about seeing an ex-boyfriend, having a little polite conversation? Besides, if I were to leave, wouldn't I be playing a game that I have no business playing? A game that was lost a long time ago?

So instead I set about eating my bagel. It is tasteless- only texture- but I keep chewing and swallowing, remembering to sip my diet coke along the way. I don't allow myself another glance at my reflection. I won't try to look my best or even check my teeth for food. Let there be a piece of blueberry wedged in my teeth. I have nothing to prove to him. And nothing to prove to myself.

That is my last thought before I see his face through the rain-streaked door of the diner. My heart starts pounding again and my leg bounces up and down. I think how nice it would be to have one of Keith's stim toys- he has a wide variety of spinning rings, smooth stones, and fidget cubes that helps with his autism and anxiety. He insists on carrying multiple at a time, and I always made sure to have one on me when we went out together. Too bad I forgot one today. I tell myself I'm not anxious, but my body is betraying my head and heart. It happens.

I watch Shiro give his umbrella a quick shake as he glances around the diner, past Flora who is mopping the floor underneath a booth. He doesn't see me at first, and for some reason, this gives me a sense of power.

That disappears in an instant when his eyes find mine. He gives me a small, quick smile, then lowers his head and strides towards me. Seconds later, he is standing beside the table, shedding his black leather coat that I remember well. My stomach rises, falls, rises. I'm afraid for a moment that he'll bend down and kiss my cheek. But no, that is not his style. Keith kisses my cheek. Shiro never did. True to his old form, he skips niceties and slides into the booth across from me, shaking his head a couple times. He looks exactly like I remember, but a little older, and somehow bolder and more vivid- his hair darker, his build bulkier, his jaw stronger. A stark contrast to Keith's fine features, long, athletic limbs, light coloring. Keith is easier on the eyes, I think. Keith is easier _period._ The same way a walk on the beach is easy. A Sunday nap. A round peg in a round hole.

"Lance McClain," he finally says, looking into my eyes.

I couldn't have scripted a better opening line. I embrace it, staring back into his deep brown eyes, banded by black rims. " _Kogane._ Lance McClain- _Kogane._ " I announce proudly.

Shiro furrows his brow, as if trying to place my new last name, which he should have been able to instantly trace to Keith, since Matt was my roommate when we were together. But he can't seem to make the connection. This should not surprise me. Shiro never cared to learn much about my friends- and never cared for Matt at all. The feeling was mutual. After my first big fight with Shiro, the one that reduced me to a crying, _The Notebook_ worthy mess, Matt took the strip of candids I had of us and ripped them in a neat line, straight down a row of his foreheads, noses, lips, leaving my grinning faces untainted. 

"See how much better you look now?" Matt said. "Without that asshole?"

_That's a true friend,_ I remember thinking, even as I located a roll of tape and delicately put Shiro back together again. I thought the same thing about Matt again when Shiro and I broke up for good and he brought me his entire collection of video games, a pizza, and a lot of good liquor. He said that we were celebrating, and I saved the bottle caps from our beers, placing the strip of photos with them in a memory box I kept- until Matt discovered it while searching for a rogue page of notes.

"What is this?" he said, flipping a couple of caps between his fingers. A classic party trick I taught him.

"Um... you brought me alcohol," I said, embarrassed. "After Shiro. Remember?"

"You saved these? And the pictures?"

I argued that the caps were a sentimental token of friendship with him and nothing else- although the truth was I couldn't part with anything that had to do with Shiro.

Matt raised his eyebrows, but dropped the subject, the way he dropped most controversial things. Well, at least socially complicated things. Don't get him started on Star Wars vs. Star Trek.

In any event, I have just stated my married name to Shiro. A not-so-small triumph.

Shiro raises his chin, pushes out his lower lip, and says, "Oh? Congratulations."

"Thanks." I am jubilant, and have just conquered the world- and then I'm slightly ashamed for feeling so victorious. _The opposite of love is indifference,_ I silently recite.

"So. Who's the lucky person?"

"You remember Matt?"

"Sure, I do."

"I married his brother. I think you met him?" I say vaguely, even though I know for a fact Shiro and Keith met once, at a bar near campus. At the time, it was only a brief, meaningless encounter between my boyfriend and my best friend's brother. An exchange of _How're ya doin'?... Nice to meet you, man._ Maybe a handshake or something. Standard stuff. But years later, after Shiro and I had long broken up, and Keith and I had begun to date, I would deconstruct that moment in exhausting detail, as any overly dramatic and complusive person such as myself would.

A flicker of recognition crosses Shiro's face now. " _That_ guy? Really? The adopted one?"

I bristle at his choice of words, his light tone of mockery, wondering what Shiro is thinking now. Had he gleaned something from their brief meeting? Is he simply expressing his disdain for my husband? Had I, at any point, discussed Keith in a way to give him ammunition now? No. That was impossible. There was-and _is_ \- nothing negative or controversial to say about Keith. Keith is well-loved.

I look back into Shiro's eyes, telling myself not to get defensive- or react at all. Shiro's opinion no longer matters. Instead I nod placidly, confidently. "Yes. Matt's brother," I repeat.

"Well. That worked out _perfectly,"_ Shiro says with what I'm pretty sure is sarcasm. 

"Yes," I say, giving him a smug smile. "It _sure_ did."

"One big happy family," he says.

Now, I'm sure of his tone, and I feel myself tense, a familiar rage rising. A brand of rage that only Shiro had ever inspired in me. I look down at my wallet with every intention of dropping a few bills on the table, standing, and stalking off. But then I hear my name as a featherweight question and feel his hand covering mine, swallowing it whole. I had forgotten how large his hands were. How hot they always were, even in winter. I fight to move my hand away from his, but I can't. _At least he has my right one,_ I think. My left hand is clenched underneath the table, still safe. I rub my wedding band with my thumb and catch my breath.

"I've missed you," Shiro says.

I look at him, shocked, speechless. He _misses_ me? It can't be the truth- but then again, Shiro isn't about lies. He's about the cold, hard truth. Like it or leave it.

He continues, "I'm sorry, Lance."

"Sorry for what?" I ask, thinking that there are two kinds of sorry. There is the sorry laced with regret, and then there's a pure sorry. The kind that's merely asking for forgiveness, nothing more.

"Everything," Shiro says, _"Everything._

_Well, that about covers it,_ I think. I uncurl my fingers and look down at my ring. There's a huge lump in my throat, and my voice comes out more timid than anything. "It's water under the bridge," I manage. And I mean it. It really is water under the bridge.

"I know," Shiro says. "But I'm still sorry."

I blink and look away, but I still can't will myself to move my hand. "Don't be," I say. "Everything is fine."

Shiro's thick eyebrows, so neatly shaped that I'm still convinced he plucks them, rise in tandem. "Fine?"

I know what he's implying so I quickly say, "More than fine. Everything is _great._ Exactly as it should be."

His expression changes to playful, they way he used to look when I loved him the most and believed that things would work out between us. My heart twists in knots.

"So, _Lance McClain-Kogane,_ in light of how _fine_ everything has turned out to be, what do you say we give the friendship thing a try? Think we could do that?

I tally all the reasons why not, all the ways it could hurt. Yet, I watch myself shrug nonchalantly and hear myself murmur, "Why not?"

Then I slide my hand out from under his a moment too late.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance remembers how he and Shiro met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so medical school is busting my ass so, sorry about the late update!
> 
> But hey... did someone ask for a longer than usual chapter??? No one?? Okay, well, here you go anyways folks!
> 
> Also someone tried to give me shit about Keith being autistic but 1. I'm autistic so put your bias away and 2. it has almost nothing to do with the story? I just wanted to put a headcannon in there and see where it went so yeah. Fight me.

I leave the diner in a haze, feeling a mixture of resentment, melancholy, and anticipation. It is an odd and unsettling mix of emotions worsened by the rain, now coming down in icy, diagonal sheets. I briefly consider taking the long walk home, almost _wishing_ to be cold, wet, and miserable, but I think better of it. There’s nothing to wallow in, no reason to be upset or even introspective.

So I head for the subway instead, striding along the slick sidewalks with purpose. Memories of Shiro swirl in my head, but I refuse to settle on any of them. _It’s in the past,_ I mutter aloud as I take the stairs underground at Union Station. On the platform, I sidestep little puddles and look around for distractions. I buy a pack of mint Altoids at a newsstand, skim the tabloid headlines, eavesdrop on a contentious conversation about politics, and watch a rat scurry along the tracks below. Anything to avoid rewinding and replaying my exchange with Shiro. If the floodgates open, I will overanalyze everything that was said, as well as the stubborn subtext that was always a part of our time together. _What did he mean by that? Why didn’t he say this? Does he still have feelings for me? Is he married now, too? If so, why didn’t he say so?_

I tell myself that none of it matters now. It hasn’t mattered for a long time.

My train finally pulls into the station. It is rush hour so all the cars are packed, standing room only. I crush my way into one, beside a mother and her elementary-aged son. At least I think it is her son- they have the same noses and eyes. The little boy is wearing a thick navy coat with thick, black decorative seams. They are discussing what to have for supper.

“Chicken-alfredo pasta with French bread?” the son suggests, looking hopeful.

I wait for a “We just had that” sort of parental objection, but the mother only smiles and says, “That sounds like a great idea.” Her voice is as warm and soothing as the food they will share.

I think of my own mother as I do several times a day, often reminded by far less obvious stimuli than the mother-son pair beside me. My mind drifts to a reoccurring motif- what would our adult relationship have felt like? Would I trust her with matters of the heart and soul? Or would we have been as close as Matt and his mom, talking several times a day? I like to think that we would have been confidantes. Maybe not exchanging notes and papers, practically of the same mind (my mother was smart, but not like Matt’s), but emotionally connected enough to tell her about Shiro and the diner. His hand on mine. The way I feel now.

I cobble together the things she might have said, reassuring tidbits like: _I’m so glad you found Keith. He is like another son to me. I never cared much for that other boy._

All too predictable, I think, digging deep for more. I close my eyes, picturing her _before_ she got sick, something I haven’t done lately. I can see her almond-shaped eyes, similar to mine, but brown and deep set. I picture her broad, smooth forehead. Her thick, shiny hair, always tied half up and half down, had gentle curls that rivaled Allura’s, gracefully cascading over her shoulders and back. Her dimples and winkles that formed when she smiled, unconsciously covering them with her hand when she laughed really hard.

I then think about her stern gaze- befitting a math teacher at a public school- and hear these words uttered in her Cuban accent: _Mijo, listen here. Don’t go giving this encounter any crazy meaning like you did the first time around. It doesn’t mean a thing. Not. A. Thing. Sometimes, in life, there’s no meaning at all, Lance._

I want to listen to my mother now. I want to believe that she is giving me guidance from some faraway place, but I still feel myself caving, giving into the memory of that _first_ chance encounter at the New York State Supreme Court on Centre Street when Shiro and I were both summoned to jury duty on the same Monday in October. Trapped together in a windowless room with terrible acoustics, metal folding chairs, and someone that forgot to wear deodorant. It was all random, and I believed for a long time, romance was because of the randomness.  
I was only twenty-two years old, but I felt much older due to the vague fear and disillusionment that comes with leaving the safety net of college and abruptly joining “the real world” (I still don’t believe that term is accurate), especially when you have no focus, no plan, no money, and no mother. Matt and I had just moved to New York the summer before, right after we graduated, and he landed an extensive research position at New York University. I had an offer for an entry-level position at a local bank in Harrisburg, so I had planned on moving back home to live with my father and his new wife, Cindy, a sweet natured but slightly tacky woman with big boobs and overly dyed hair. But Matt convinced me to go to New York with him instead, giving me speeches about the Big Apple and how if I could make it there, I’d make it anywhere. I reluctantly agreed because I couldn’t stand the thought of watching another woman take over my house- my _mother’s_ house.

So Matt’s father hired movers to pack up our dorm room, bought us one-way tickets to New York, and helped us settle into a quaint two-bedroom apartment on Columbus and Seventy-ninth, he a brand-new wardrobe of embroidered scrubs and anti-microbial lab coats with suits to wear during his presentations, and me with my useless philosophy major and stash of T-shirts and jeans. I had only $647 to my name and was in the habit of withdrawing five dollars at a time from the ATM, an amount that, shockingly enough, couldn’t score me a sandwich in the city. But Matt’s trust fund, set up by his maternal grandparents, had just kicked in, and he assured me that what was his was mine because, after all, weren’t we more like brothers than friends?

“Please don’t make me live in a shack just so you can afford half the rent,” he’d say, joking, but also quite serious. Money was something Matt not only didn’t _have_ to think about but didn’t _want_ to think about or discuss. So I learned to swallow my pride and ignore my prickly hot neck every time I’d have to borrow from him. I told myself that guilt was a wasted emotion, and that I’d make it up to him one day- if not monetarily, then somehow.

For almost a month during that first vivid summer in the city, I spiced up my resume with exaggerations and fancy fonts and applied for every office job I could find. The more boring the description, the more legitimate the career seemed because at the time I equated adulthood with a certain measure of misery. I got a lot of callbacks, but it must have been an abysmal interview, because I always came up empty handed. So I finally settled for a job as a waiter at a café on Park Avenue South that was less than great, but not bad. The hours were long- I often worked the late-night shift- and my feet hurt all the time, but it wasn’t all bad. I made surprisingly good money (people tip better late at night), met some cool people, and learned everything I wanted to know about cheese plates, meat platters, and burgers with the works. 

In the meantime, I took up photography. It started as a hobby, a way to fill my days and get to know the city. I wandered around various neighborhoods– Alphabet City, Chinatown, SoHo, Tribeca, the East Village- as I snapped photos with a Canon EOS Digital Rebel that my Dad and Cindy had given me for graduation. But very quickly, taking photos became something more to me. It became something that I not only loved doing, but actually _needed_ to do, like how authors talk about their urge to write or avid runners just _have_ to go for their morning jog. Photography exhilarated me and filled me with purpose even when I was at my most lonesome and aimless. I was starting to miss my Mama more than I ever had in college, and began to crave a loving, romantic relationship. I have had sexual partners while I was in college and dated here and there, but never had been anywhere close to being in love. That was okay with me until that first year in New York. I wasn’t sure what had changed inside my head, but perhaps it was being a “real grown-up” and being surrounded by millions of people, Matt added, who all seemed to have big dreams and someone to love.

So I concentrated all of my energy on photography. I spent every spare cent on memory cards and photopaper, every spare moment taking pictures or reading books in the library or bookstores. I poured over reference books and technique guides to collections by great photographers. My favorite- which Matt bought for me for my twenty-fourth birthday- was _Moments Preserved_ by Irving Penn, which showed many different models Penn had photographed over his early career with Vogue magazine. With each photo I felt as if I knew the models and understood the story they told. I decided that this was the mark of a great photograph. _If I could make pictures like this, I would be fulfilled with my life, even without a partner._

Looking back it was perfectly clear what I should do next, but it took Matt to point out the obvious- one of the many things friends are for. He had just returned home from a business trip to Los Angeles, rolling in his suitcase and pausing at the kitchen table to pick up one of my freshly printed photographs. It was a color photo of a distraught teenager sitting on a curb in Brooklyn, the contents of their bag spilled onto the street around them. They had curly, blonde hair and was attractive in an innocent adolescent way. They were reaching out to retrieve a cracked mirror with one hand, the other barely touching their forehead.

“Wow,” Matt said, holding up the photo up close to his face. “That’s an _amazing_ picture.”

“Thanks,” I said, feeling modest- but proud. It _was_ an amazing picture.

“Why are they so sad?” Matt asked.

I shrugged, telling him I seldom talked to those who I photographed. Only if they caught me taking their picture and talked to me first.

“Maybe they lost their wallet,” Matt said.

“Maybe they just broke up with someone,” I said.

_Or maybe their mother just died._

Matt kept studying the picture, commenting that the person’s bright red knee socks gave the photo an almost vintage feel. “Although,” he added in a mocking tone, “Pidge has said knee socks _are_ coming back in. At least, in her wardrobe.”

“They are,” I said. “But you wouldn’t know.”

That’s when he said to me, “Your photos are pure genius, Lance.” His messy hair bobbed earnestly as he readjusted his glasses with his left hand. They slid back down almost immediately. It was a habit of his and I had tried to encourage him to get contacts on numerous occasions. Not because they’re necessary, but because it would give him one less thing to lose, one less thing to mess with, and one less thing to break while working. He nodded once more, causing his glasses to slip further and said, “You should pursue photography professionally.”

“You think so?” I said offhandedly.

Oddly enough, it was something I had never considered, although I’m not sure why. Perhaps I was worried that my enthusiasm would exceed my ability. I couldn’t bear the thought of failing at something I cared so much about. But Matt’s opinion meant a lot to me. He was never insincere, and always gave it to me straight- the sign of a _real_ friendship.

“I _know_ so,” he said. “You should go for it. Do this thing for real.”

So I took Matt’s advice and began to look for a new job in the photography field. I applied for every assistant’s position I could find- including a few for cheesy wedding photographers on Long Island. But without any formal training, I was once again turned down by everyone and ended up taking a minimum-wage position as a film processor in a small, boutique-y photo lab with ancient equipment. I had to start somewhere, I told myself, as I took the bus to dreary lower Second Avenue on my first day and unpacked my peanut butter sandwich in a drafty back room that smelled of cigarettes and bleach.

But, as it turned out, it was the ideal first job thanks to Plaxum, the Arabian girl who was married to the owner’s son. Plaxum was a pure genius with color and taught me more about custom printing than I could have learned in any class (and more than I eventually _did_ learn when I finally went to photography school). Every day I watched Plaxum’s thin, nimble fingers feed the film and twist the knobs on the machines, adding a little more blue, a little less yellow to yield the most perfect prints, while I fell in love with my fledgling chosen profession.

So that’s where I was when I got that infamous jury summons. Although still very poor, I was fulfilled, happy, and hopeful, and none too anxious to put my work (and pay) on hold for jury duty. Matt suggested I ask Keith, who had just started his third year of law school at Columbia, for his advice on how to get excused. So, I gave him a call, and he assured me It would be a cinch.

“You can’t lie on your voir dire,” he said as I listened, impressed with the Latin term. “But you can exaggerate your bias. Just imply that you hate lawyers, don’t trust cops, or resent the wealthy. Whatever it seems they’re looking for.”

“Well,” I jokingly huffed. “I do resent the wealthy.”

Keith chuckled. He could tell that I was kidding, but he also must have known from Matt how broke I always was. He cleared his throat, and continued earnestly, “Impetuous body language can do the trick too. Look pissed off and put out to be there. Like you have more important things to be doing. Keep your arms crossed. Neither side wants an impatient juror.”

I said I would definitely take his advice. Anything to get back to my regularly scheduled life- and my much needed paycheck.

But all of that changed in a flash when I saw Shiro for the first time, a moment still frozen in my mind forever.

It was still early morning, but I had exhausted through my phone apps, checked my watch a hundred times, and called Plaxum from a pay phone to give her a status report, when I sat back in my chair, scanned the jury room, and spotted him sitting a few rows diagonally in front of me. He was reading the back page of the _New York Post_ as he nodded to the beat of a song on his iPod, and I suddenly had a crazy urge to know what he was listening to. For some reason, I imagined that it was Stills or Crosby. Something manly and comfortable to go with his faded jeans, a black windbreaker, and loosely tied Nike shoes. As he glanced at the wall clock, I admired his profile. His distinctive nose (Matt would call it uptight), high cheekbones, and the way his dark hair was cut into a fade against the pale skin of his neck. He was particularly broad and tall, with a back and shoulders to match. I envisioned him jumping rope in a stripped-down gym or running up bleachers, Rocky style, and decided he was both sexy and handsome. As in, the “I bet he’d be _fucking fantastic_ in bed.” The thought took me by surprise because I hadn’t thought that way about a man in some time, and in such a physical way. I liked the idea of getting to know someone both in bed and in person. Moreover, I wasn’t even that into men. _Yet._

As if reading my mind, Shiro turned in his seat and shot me a wry, intelligent look that said, “I busted you,” or maybe just, “Jury duty sucks, doesn’t it?” He had deep set eyes that somehow managed to look mysterious under yellow fluorescent lights. I held his gaze for what felt like one dangerous beat before pretending to concentrate on the droning bureaucrat at the front of the room who was explaining what constituted a valid medical excuse for at least the fifth time.

Later Shiro would tell me that I appeared flustered, while I would deny it, insisting that I had barely noticed him at all. Either way, we would agree that that was the moment jury duty no longer completely sucked.

For the next hour, I was acutely aware of Shiro’s every small move. I watched him stretch and yawn. I watched him fold his newspaper and stow it under his chair. I watched his walk out of the room (a painfully beautiful sight, I might add) and return with a pack of peanut butter crackers, which he stopped eating after noticing the No Food or Drink signs posted in the room. He never once looked back at me, but I had the feeling that he was aware of me watching him and this fact gave me a strange thrill. I wasn’t about to call it anything as crazy of as love at first sight- I didn’t believe in things like that- but I knew that I was intrigued in an unprecedented way.

And then my jury-duty fairy godmother granted my wish. Our names were called, in a list of other names, and we ended up side by side in a jury box, mere inches apart. There was nothing grand about the small courtroom, yet there was still a sense that something somber and important was about to unfold, a tension that made sitting so close to Shiro feel… intimate.

From the corner of my eye, I could see his sturdy forearm crisscrossed by blue veins and was taken aback by a fluttery longing that was reminiscent of that high school crush I had on Nyma, and my euphoria when she sat next to me one morning in our musty auditorium during a lackluster assembly about all the ways doing drugs could destroy our lives. I remember basking in Nyma’s heavy application of Peach Bellini (which I can still sniff out in a crowd) and laughing at her jokes about all the ways that weed could improve your life. While I was reliving those moments, the DA directed his attention at Shiro and said with false cheer, “Juror Number Nine. Good morning.”

Shiro gave a respectful nod back.

“Where do you live, sir?” the DA asked.

I sat up straight in my chair, hoping that his voice would live up to his looks. There’s nothing worse than a high, thin voice on a someone who looked like Shiro did.

Of course, Shiro did not disappoint. He cleared his throat and out came his deep, self-assured voice. “Morningside Heights.”

‘Did you grow up there?”

“No, I’m from Astoria,” Shiro said. “Born and raised.”

 _Yes! Queens!_ I thought, as I had already begun to fall in love with the outer boroughs. Perhaps because Brooklyn and the Bronx and Queens reminded me of home- blue collar and authentic. Perhaps my photos away from the heart of New York’s riches were always more compelling.

The DA continued, asking what Shiro did for a living, as I thought to myself that voir dire was better than a first date. Someone else asked the questions while you got to eavesdrop. And he had to tell the truth. _Perfect._

“I’m a writer… A reporter,” Shiro said. “I cover some articles in a small newspaper.”

 _Perfect,_ I thought again. I pictured him roaming the streets with a spiral notepad and chatting up old guys in dark bars in the middle of the afternoon for a feature about how the city in losing all of its character and roughness.

And so it continued over the next few minutes as I swooned over Shiro’s answers as much for the content as for his cordial and polite delivery. I learned that he went to college for three years before being deployed and was still looking for a place to continue his education. That he didn’t know any lawyers, and that the men in his family were all either firefighters or military men, but he never found the family profession “compelling.” That he had never been married and had no children, and he had never been victim of a violent crime, “unless you count military accidents,” he said, holding up his prosthetic arm.

And with that last bit of information, my desire to be dismissed completely dissipated. Instead, I embraced my civic duty with a newfound fervor. When it was my turn to answer questions, I did everything Keith advised me _not_ to do. I was friendly and eager to please. I flashed both lawyers my award-winning smile, showing them what an ideal, open-minded juror I would make. I considered my job and how much Plaxum needed me at work, but then high-mindedly concluded that our criminal justice system and the Constitution upon which it was built were worth a sacrifice.

So when, several rounds of questioning later, Shiro and I were selected as Jurors Nine and Ten, I was elated, a state I intermittently returned to over the next six days of testimony despite graphic details of a brutal box-cutter stabbing in Spanish Harlem. A twenty-year-old kid was dead and another on trial for murder, and there I was hoping the evidence would take a good long while to shake out. I couldn’t help it. I craved more days beside Shiro, the chance to talk to him. To know him in some small way. I needed to know whether my crush- although it was a loose term- was founded. All the while, Shiro was friendly, but inaccessible. He kept his headphones in whenever possible, avoiding small talk in the hallway outside the courtroom where the rest of the jurors would chat about everything but the case, and he ate lunch alone every afternoon rather than joining us in the deli adjacent to the courthouse. His guardedness only made me like him more.

Then one morning, right before the closing arguments, as we were settling in our jury-box seats, he turned and said to me, “This is it.” Then he smiled a slow and genuine smile- almost as if we were in on a secret together. My heart fluttered. And then, as if foreshadowed by that moment, we actually _were_ in on a secret together.

It started in deliberations when it became clear that Shiro and I shared the same view of the testimony. In short, we were both in favor of an outright acquittal. The actual killing wasn’t in issue- the defendant had confessed and the confession was unchallenged- so the sole debate was whether he had acted in self-defense. Shiro and I thought he had. Or, to put it more accurately, we thought there was plenty of reasonable doubt that the defendant _hadn’t_ acted in self-defense- a subtle distinction that, scarily enough, at least half of the jurors didn’t seem to grasp. We kept pointing to the fact that the defendant had no prior criminal record (a near miracle in his rough neighborhood), and that he was deathly afraid of the victim (who had been a tough gang leader in Harlem and had been threatening the defendant for months- so much so that he had gone to the police for protection). And finally, that the defendant was carrying the box cutter in the normal course of his job with a moving company. All of which added up to our belief that the defendant had panicked when cornered by the victim and _three_ of his gang members, and had lashed out in a state of panicked self-defense. It seemed like a plausible scenario- and definitely plausible enough to reach the benchmark of reasonable doubt.

After three long days of going around in aggravating circles, we were still in a gridlock with the rest of the panel, all of us miserably sequestered by night at a dreary Ramada Inn near JFK Airport. We were allowed to watch TV- apparently the trial wasn’t newsworthy- but we weren’t allowed to make any outgoing phone calls, nor could we discuss the case with one another unless in the jury room during official deliberations.

So when my hotel room phone rang one night, I was startled, wondering who it could possibly be, and secretly hoping that it was Shiro. Perhaps he had taken note of my room number on our way back from our bailiff-supervised group dinner earlier that evening. I fumbled for the phone and whispered hello into the receiver.

Shiro returned his own hushed hello. Then he said, as if there had been any confusion, “It’s Juror Number Nine, Shiro.”

“I know,” I said, feeling blood rush from my head to my limbs.

“Look,” he said (after three days of deliberations, I knew that he often started his sentences with “look,” a quirk I loved). “I know I’m not supposed to be calling you… but I’m going crazy over here…”

I wasn’t sure what he meant by this- going crazy from being sequestered or going crazy because he was into me. I figured it had to be the former. The latter was too impossibly good to be true.

“Yeah. I know what you mean,” I said, trying and failing to keep my voice even. “I just can’t stop thinking about the testimony. It’s all so frustrating.”

Shiro exhaled into the phone and after a long silence said, “I mean, how bad would it suck to have a dozen morons deciding your fate?”

“A _dozen_ morons?” I said, trying to be funny, cool. “Speak for yourself, pal.”

Shiro laughed as I lay in bed, buzzing with excitement.

Then he said, “Okay. _Ten_ morons. Or at least a good, solid eight.”

“Yeah,” I said eloquently. “I know. I mean, _seriously,_ ” I continued. “Can you believe these people? Half of them don’t have an open mind at all- the other half are indecisive and go with whatever their lunch buddies think.”

I couldn’t believe we were finally having a real conversation. And, while I lay in the dark, under the covers, no less. Wow, it really was like how things were in high school. I closed my eyes, picturing him in his bed. I couldn’t believe how much I wanted a virtual stranger.

“I never thought this before,” Shiro said, “but if I were on trial, I’d rather face a judge than a jury.”

I said I might have to agree with that.

“Hell, I’d rather have a _corrupt_ judge taking bribes from my enemies than this loser crew.”

He laughed as I proceeded to joke about the more outrageously off-point anecdotes that a few of our jurors had shared. It was one tangent after another in that claustrophobic room- a free-for-all of life experience with no relevance to the deliberations whatsoever.

“Some people just love to hear themselves talk.” Shiro said. I could tell he was smirking, aiming that statement at me.

“You don’t seem to be one of them, huh Mr. Aloof?”

“I am not aloof,” Shiro said unconvincingly.

“Are too,” I argued. “Mr. Wear-Your Headphones so you don’t have to interact with anyone.”

“I’m talking now,” Shiro said.

“It’s about time,” I said, thinking that it was easy to be brave in the dark, on the phone.

A stretch of silence followed which felt warm and forbidden.

Then I stated the obvious- that we’d be in big trouble if our bailiff babysitter busted us talking on the phone. And about the case, no less.

“Yes, we would,” Leo said. Then he added very slowly and deliberately. “And I guess we’d be in even more hot water if I paid you a visit right now, huh?”

“What’s that?” I said, even though I had heard him, loud and clear.

“Can I come see you?” he said again, his voice suggestive.

I sat up abruptly, smoothing the sheets around me. “What about the bailiff?” I said, feeling the best kind of weak.

“He went to bed. The halls are clear. I already checked.”

“Really?” I spoke lowly. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Yes. _Really_ …So?”

“So?” I echoed.

“So can I come over and see you? I just… want to see you. Face to face. Alone.”

I didn’t really believe that was all he wanted- and a great portion of me hoped it wasn’t either. I thought of how much trouble we’d be in if we got caught together in a jury-duty booty call, and that we owed it to the defendant to follow the rules- that our reckless behavior could result in a mistrial. I thought of how unsexy my Steelers cotton boy shorts were and that I had nothing nicer in my hastily packed suitcase. I thought about the conventional wisdom that if I said yes- and something _did_ happen- that Shiro might lose respect for me and we’d be over before we could begin.

So I opened my mouth, poised to protest, or at the very least, deflect. But instead, I breathed an airy _yes_ into the phone. It would be the first of many times I couldn’t say no to Shiro.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I'm not promising smut but I'm also not not promising smut, you feel? Also, I'm from Texas and know nothing about NY so I did so much research you have no idea.
> 
> Please leave some feedback in the comments, I loving hearing from you guys! Also, wish me luck on some medical exams!! They're coming up super fast and I'm overwhelmed. The next chapter is already planned out though, and it's short so maybe that's where smut comes in? I don't know. *shrug*
> 
> Love you guys!!
> 
> If you're interested in following my Voltron tumblr: http://klvnceiscauou.tumblr.com/


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